The Walls
by GeoffreyF
Summary: He isn't sure when he first noticed his servant's walls.


The Walls

He isn't sure when he first noticed his servant's walls. They are such a fundamental part of him that he can't imagine thinking of his servant without them, but he supposes, at some stage, he must have. He didn't see them when that ridiculous figure had stepped in to stop him chucking knives at some lackey, did he? Or perhaps, on reflection, a part of him did.

The first time he remembers thinking about the walls – deliberately giving them thought – was the incident with the chalice. When his servant looked at him as he raised the goblet of poison to his lips, and toasted him silently, with a look. He thought about the walls, then, because that was the first time he glimpsed past them, to the mystery beyond.

Because they change, these walls of his servant's. Or at least, they used to. Sometimes they would sink until they could almost be stepped over by anyone, by a child. And sometimes they woud be so tall, so forbidding, that you could barely see the top. He remembers, that one time in Ealdor, when they almost came down. He could all but feel them tremble at their foundations. But then he'd said something, or done something, without thinking, and just like that, there they were again, frowning down at him. (His servant grinned at him. The walls are highest when his servant grins.)

It wasn't really until later that he realised that he had helped build the walls himself. He suspects quite a lot of people have pitched in, actually. He is getting so good at seeing them that he can almost tell the others' handiwork. That turret looks like his wife's. A whole, vast section from his physician. The foundations, laid by his own father. And the spikes sticking out, a warning of what happens when you get too close, courtesy of his sister.

Sometimes, tentatively, he tests the strength of the walls. It isn't something he does often, because, much as he hates to admit it, the walls scare him a little. No, more than a little. He isn't sure he wants to know about whatever it is they're hiding. So his sallies aren't really much more than tiny pebbles, scratching invisible marks in the vast expanse. A comment here, a look there. Half of him hopes they'll open up a peephole and grant him the tiniest glimpse through. The other half hopes they add another mile to the walls' height.

He doesn't see over the walls, now. He hasn't for a while. He can recognise the times when, once, he would have caught sight of something beyond. Wise counsel. Serious reproof. A private moment, here and there. Nowadays they barely produce a tremor. The walls stand, and they stand tall.

He's happy with the walls, he tells himself. It really isn't even any of his business, actually. What does he care? It doesn't affect the way his servant does his job. They're not _his _walls, after all, but his servant's. His servant can deal with them.

That's what he tells himself.

After a while, he stops believing it.

He doesn't admit it to himself, but he becomes more daring. He touches the walls from time to time, just to see if anything will happen. It doesn't take much. He knows the tricks by now. A comment, a gesture. A look. Nothing. The walls stand. They're too strong, now. The time when he could have brought them down with a word – if that was ever possible – is long gone. He wonders if his servant knows that too. He wonders if that is why the walls are still growing.

When it's been weeks since he's seen the top, he stops lying to himself. The time for testing strength is over. He realises it's been over for a while. He's been too busy looking away to notice.

He launches an assault. It's slower than he's used to; in fact, for a while he has to remind himself that it's going on at all. But everything is a part of it. He searches, prods, observes. He gets to know the walls that he's spent the last few years not thinking about. He learns everything about their layout, their structure, where they're strong, and where they're weak.

And there it is.

There is just one weak point in the walls. Just one. He glances over it a hundred times before he takes notice and realises what it is. It seems so inconsequential, at first, until you see it properly. Then it's almost all there is.

He makes it seem natural, when it happens, spontaneous, offhand. At first his servant doesn't even notice what he's doing. Unlike his servant's, his own walls are ramshackle and rickety, barely strong enough to hide anything. They topple and fall after a light jab, and his paltry excuses for secrets come gushing out. Most of them, actually, his servant already knows. But he talks about them, reveals everything: how he feels about his sister. How he feels about his wife. How he feels about his father.

His servant's noticed now. It would be hard not to. (The walls have noticed too. They're higher than ever.)

Understanding, of course. Sympathy and inspiration. His servant's always been good at that.

He keeps one secret, though, huddled under a pile of twigs. That one, his servant needs to find out for himself.

His servant wonders why now was the time for this.

He says he just wanted some honesty between them. He lets his servant work the rest of it out.

His servant says obviously there's honesty between them. If anything, there's too much, his servant thinks, and it's not as though he isn't an open book, anyway, you can see right through him.

Lies. His servant's always been good at them too, he realises.

He gives his servant a look. The walls stare back grimly. But his servant, somehow, melts just a little.

And asks if he knows.

He wants to lie. He had planned to lie. But, somehow, he can't.

He says no, he doesn't know.

But, he says, he'd like to.

The walls sway.

His servant stares at him for a long time. Then, for an answer, for one brief moment, his servant's eyes change colour.

His servant stares at him.

He stares back.

The walls stop swaying. He knows they're getting ready. They're getting ready to become taller and stronger than ever before. Impenetrable. Unquestionable. Closed. Forever.

He doesn't want that.

He says that out loud.

It isn't a lie.

His servant doesn't believe it.

His servant knows better than to believe it. If there's one thing his servant knows, it's that this can never be. Once, there was hope for it. But that hope died a long time ago.

After a while, his servant stops speaking. The walls stand. Those eyes glisten as he turns to go. Away. Forever.

He really, really doesn't want that.

Arthur reaches out to his best friend, and holds him close.

The walls rumble.

Then nothing.

Then Merlin holds him back.

The walls come down.


End file.
